I staggered outside into violent sunlight, every inch of my body a dull throb as I pissed a powerful stream near the church wall. I remember thinking The Reverend would beat me again if he caught me finding relief so close to the Lord’s threshold, but I’d gone past fear.
They were both gone when I entered the camper. My father’s clothes still hung in the small closet and his Bible lay open to the book of Revelation on the kitchen table, but somehow I knew the two hadn’t just decided on a stroll. I checked beneath my father’s bed and found the cigar box full of money still hidden there. Seeing it calmed me a little. He wouldn’t leave without the cash. I sat down at the cramped kitchen table to wait.
Night arrived and still no sign of them. I began to weigh my options. Either go searching or cross the creek for help. I could use the chicken farmer’s telephone to call the police, only I’d have to explain my bruises. Instead, I settled down on the stoop and played guitar. It was difficult with the wounded fingers, but I managed a few weak chords until sleep sneaked up on me. I don’t remember stirring as the hours passed. It was one of those nights where I blinked, and then someone was shaking my shoulder the next morning.
I woke with Mr. Freemont and his daughter, Annabel, kneeling over me. Once I stirred, Freemont stood back and let me wipe sleep from my eyes. The guitar lay in the mud below my feet. I picked it up and wiped the filth from its frame. It felt cruel that Freemont had to see me with it. Especially considering that I’d left his prized instrument lying in a puddle.
“We came for the service,” Mr. Freemont said. “Where is your father?”
“He’s gone,” I said. “I don’t know where.”
I was a little afraid he might steal the guitar without The Reverend there to stop him, but Freemont only looked at my bruises. He touched his face as if expecting the flesh of his own jaw to be tender. Annabel wandered into the distance. She avoided looking at me, just twirled a braid of hair around her finger and dug the toe of her boot in the dirt. The long dress she wore looked uncomfortable. Several layers of fabric wrapped around her as if she were a fragile item in need of protection.
“How long has he been gone?” Mr. Freemont asked.
“Since yesterday. Lady Crawford, too.”
I didn’t mean to let the bit about Lady Crawford slip. With his shepherd absent, Freemont’s hands shook as he knelt beside me. Seeing his fear reminded me of my own. Even though my father had beaten me hours before, I didn’t know what to do if he never returned. I didn’t have the skills to care for myself.
“I’m going to find The Reverend,” Freemont told his daughter. “I want you to stay here.”
I could see Annabel didn’t want to be alone with me, but she didn’t protest. Both our fathers had instructed us in the language of silence. After Mr. Freemont departed, I scooted over on the stoop to make room for her. I knew she wouldn’t take the seat, but I wanted to be polite.
“Do you want me to play something?” I asked.
Annabel sat in the wet grass rather than join me on the stoop. I picked a few chords for distraction. My fingers ached, but I was beginning to acclimate to the pain.
“Why don’t you put that stupid thing away?” she said.
I continued until she turned her back on me. “Is it really the guitar you have a problem with?” I asked.
“I hate being here. I hate looking at you and I hate that you want to be sweet and play me a song on your stolen guitar. It makes me want to fucking puke.”
These statements meant to cut me only revealed how much we had in common. I wanted to tell her that, but I was already beginning to understand that life under my father’s thumb was over. She, however, would have more years to endure before any escape could be possible. I still wonder what happened to her. Did she ever become free to live a normal life? Is normalcy even something either of us could expect after such a strange upbringing?
“It’s not my fault, you know?” I said.
“Fuck you. My father’s brainwashed. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
I set the guitar aside and wandered across the field toward the tree line.
“Where’re you going?” Annabel called, but I didn’t bother answering.
Generations of brittle leaves crunched under my feet as I hiked through the woods. When I reached the creekbank, I procured a staff of ash and used it for leverage against the water colliding into my thighs as I crossed. The ground heaved up with tree roots the deeper I traveled into the woods. I became lost right away. Anger had clouded my judgment until I couldn’t be sure how far I’d gone. My back ached from the hike, so I sat down on a nearby log and cried. I damned my father for leaving me. All this because someone wouldn’t love him back. No one loved me and still I didn’t shrink from my obligations. I’d even managed to keep a modicum of foolish hope, offering kindness to girls like Annabel who repaid me with rebuke. I wanted Angela’s hands on me then, those calloused fingertips caressing my black eye and split lip, whispering sweet things that I could interpret as something more than comfort. Just soft words. Simple and plain.
Something swayed in the treetops, but I couldn’t quite make it out. It remained obscured until I moved deeper into the maze of limbs. I noticed the shoes first. Polished wingtips hanging maybe ten feet from the ground. The pant legs above the shoes were cuffed, the white socks underneath peeking out and looking embarrassed compared to the rest of the formal Sunday garb. The rope had left my father’s face bloated. His cheeks blackened and puffed until The Reverend’s tongue poked between his lips. A cloud of swarming flies vibrated, their buzzing filling my ears. Gnats, the kind always attached to dog dicks, flew into my eyes as if to spare me vision.
I don’t know how long I watched him sway. At some point, I heard the crunching footfalls of Mr. Freemont. He came carrying Lady Crawford through the underbrush. Her white gown was torn at the throat and breasts. Ripped pieces of the fabric trailed behind Freemont’s feet like a bridal train. When he laid the body against a nearby tree, I saw the marks on her neck from the throttling. This wasn’t the only wound. Lady Crawford’s hair lay matted to her cheek with blood, her right temple sunken into her skull. Every exposed inch of skin was painted with dirt. I stared until Mr. Freemont moved me from underneath my father’s shoes.
“I found him first, but I couldn’t get him down,” Freemont said. He kept apologizing for what I’d seen.
We headed back, with Freemont carrying Lady Crawford. I don’t remember much about the walk other than Mr. Freemont fell twice in the creek. When we emerged on the bank, Lady Crawford had been partially washed by the spills, everything below her knees rendered their original pale.
“Go inside the church,” Mr. Freemont called to Annabel as we came out of the trees. “Don’t come over here.” When she didn’t respond, Mr. Freemont began to scream. “Go on, Goddamn it.”